


The Witch and the Spider

by Neddea



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cottagecore, Courtly Love, Fairy Tale Elements, Fluff, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Historical Accuracy, How Do I Tag, Internalized Homophobia, Loneliness, M/M, Magic, Middle Ages, Mutual Pining, Mystery, Not Spider-Man: Far From Home Mid-Credits Scene Compliant, Occasional swearing I guess?, Panic Attacks, Peter Parker is a Little Shit, Post-Spider-Man: Far From Home, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Puzzles, Romance, Slow Burn, Time Travel, Unrequited Love, Witches, bardcore, or so Baudran hopes for, or so I try, witchcore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:06:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27320170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neddea/pseuds/Neddea
Summary: Peter Parker falls twice.The first time comes when he’s in the middle of the street and suddenly he finds himself falling through some vortex. He finally lands again; he’s surrounded by ancient trees and a sense of foreboding.The second time arrives when he fixes his gaze on a mysterious young man who lives in the forest, and the young man looks back at him.Or: a modern fairy tale of a spider-themed hero who travels back in time to Middle-Ages-France and meets a lonely witch living in a cottage in an ancient forest. He’ll try to come back to his time, but magic is no easy work, other people want to use that same power for selfish reasons... and maybe he doesn’t want to leave this young man’s side anyway.
Relationships: Michelle Jones & Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Flash Thompson, Peter Parker/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 22
Collections: A lire





	1. The Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lorian_Lawliet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorian_Lawliet/gifts).



> Hello! This is my first fic ever, and English is not my mother tongue, so I’m sorry for any errors and inconsistencies you may find! Please do tell me if you find any!
> 
> This story starts a couple of years or so after Far From Home, but there’s no identity reveal as per the mid credits scene.
> 
> There’s a Youtube playlist I’ve made with plenty of songs that inspired this fic, and the first 90 or so (lol) follow the plot. Here it is!
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLf0Epo4sn1XEXR9CR__Lx9kulA2EE1Sbq
> 
> Also, this fic is dedicated to Lorian_lawliet (@martablazart on Instagram), a wonderful artist and an even better friend 💜
> 
> Thank you for reading this, I hope you enjoy it! If you want to see the art I’m making of this AU find me on Instagram and Tumblr @Neddea (I’m actually a concept artist, I’m not sure why I’m writing this in a prose format instead of a comic or something like that lol). Please leave a kudos and/or a comment! <3

Before he knew it, Peter was falling. Which was pretty weird already, because he had been standing in the middle of the street and suddenly bam!, no ground nor street anymore. He hadn’t even been superheroing and his spidey-sense hadn’t warned him soon enough, so that was extra weird. God, did he hate school trips… Okay, granted, he hadn’t technically been on a school trip, it was already over, but it hadn’t been even half a damned hour since it had ended. Speaking of which, how long had he been falling? If Peter had to guess, he’d say either five minutes or a hundred years.

That would be both correct and incorrect, with almost a four hundred years difference.

Regardless, he was getting tired after several minutes of free falling; around him, images of different scenes flickered momentarily, dying before he could even process what he was seeing, and the cacophony that accompanied them was not only confusing him even more but also giving him the headache of several centuries. At some point, his traveling speed started going down and he was able to somewhat wrap his head around what was happening a little better.

A war, finally over; hundreds of men and women exhausted, many other thousands dead, only wanting peace and rest.

A foreign king, crowned in a sacred place, surrounded by people who don’t consider him their own, a selfish overgrown child in the middle of a selfish, never ending war.

A betrayal, a snake biting his ally to toss her into the lion’s den.

A joyous celebration, the return of a long desired savior.

A young raven, withering away in his own despair.

A treasure of infinite value, lost forever.

A farewell, cold and rushed, a piece of two hearts torn apart.

Peter could sense the end of his… journey? was finally near, and everything was getting less and less blurred together, but remained just as confusing. Trying to be ready to land, he twisted his limbs and tried to face forward.

The tower, ominous and foreboding, struck by a wondrous force.

The marching reaper, looking directly into the eyes of the raven.

The crossing of two paths, destined to meet each other, fated to be separated right away.

The reunion, several pieces becoming a whole again.

The stern, blinded woman, swinging blade in hand and holding scales.

The breeze of hope, gathering together those who had succumbed to the numbness.

A small dot of green appeared at the end of the kaleidoscopic tunnel he was falling through, and before Peter could start thinking it was just his brain being fed up with the emptiness ahead of him (and it wouldn’t be the first time), it started growing bigger and bigger. As he prepared his web shooters for the landing (just in case, you never know), a certain part of the images around him became fully clear in his peripheral view: even as the scenes changed, the only thing that remained the same was the face of a young man, not older than Peter himself. Pale skin that spoke of lonely afternoons in the double-edged safety of isolation; clear, piercing eyes that hid a well of warmth behind obscure pain; a mop of dark, wild hair that reminded Peter of a crow’s feathers; a scar on his left cheek, painting his face with shades of bravery and regret… He was immediately struck by a foreboding feeling, a pull towards this mystifying boy. The green dot ahead was getting close. The scenes continued shining and dancing around him.

Terror, a festivity turned into a massacre, apple pies and delicious sweets glistening with honey and blood.

Sorrow, a memory of a long lost innocence refusing to be carried by the stream.

Dread, an assemble of vultures cackling and fumbling a spooky dance.

Spellbound.

The lake’s still surface, a dishonest façade, a laughing mirror reflecting the raven’s questions.

Suddenly, green was all he could see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Folks, I've made some color keys/storyboard for this first chapter, if you want to see it here it is!
> 
> https://neddea.tumblr.com/post/633554782089592832/the-witch-and-the-spider-neddea-spider-man


	2. Everybody gangsta until the trees start chanting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter finally lands, but if he was confused before, he’s even more now: he seems to be in the middle of a forest.
> 
> And the forest seems to be trying to communicate with him.
> 
> (Are those trees ents? He hopes they are)

Suddenly, green was all he could see. This time, it wasn’t one of the scenes that had been plaguing him throughout the fall, and his spidey sense warned him just in time to not become one with the sea of grass in front of his face (what was wrong with his sense today? Jesus…). Rapidly he shot a couple of threads to nearby trees (thanks for sending him into a forest, universe) and held on for dear life, hoping the force of his speed wouldn’t be too strong to break the trunks; luckily, small miracles do happen even to a Parker, and after bouncing back into the air and twisting into a flip to ready himself, Peter finally, FINALLY landed. His brain, however, still hadn’t caught up with the situation and everything was spinning. Badly.

_Whoa… Okay, great. At least it’s only my brain that’s moving. Great…_

Alright, so he would have to wait for it to stop, preferably on the ground, and preferably horizontally. While he lied with a pained grunt on the grass and willed the dizziness to go away, he tried to take in as much as he could of his surroundings.

The first and most obvious thing he noticed was that he was in a forest, and the second was the warmer climate. Where was he? Tennessee? Was he even still in the USA? It was early in the morning, so either he’d been falling for longer than he expected or… Well, he wasn’t sure. Peter took his coat off, seeing as he wasn’t going to need it for the moment, and after a while he started feeling a little bit better.

When he stood up (and took a deep breath, because damn was he shooketh), something was still… off. It felt as if he were in a haze, but he wasn’t sure if it was a side effect of his unusual journey or something else entirely. He tried to focus all of his senses, but the change from all the sensory input he was used to was jarring. It felt as if he were trying to go one step down only to find there were no stairs at all, and it was making Peter feel very, very on edge. The problem wasn’t that there was nothing his senses couldn’t latch on, no.

“What the hell…?”

There definitely was something in this place, something that made the grass vibrate without moving, the leaves shine even when clad in darkness, the trees speak a grave chant that didn’t need any sound.

After some minutes trying to pinpoint the origin of this feeling (and utterly failing at it), Peter decided he wasn’t going to improve his situation by just standing there. He couldn’t see any path clearly drawn on his immediate surroundings, and didn’t quite know which direction to follow. As he turned around, trying to take any hint he could grasp to get out of that place, the haze-like feeling intensified. He could sense it in his bones, pulling him into the depths and the shadows. It wasn’t too different from his Spidey sense, to some extent.

“...alright, hint taken. Yikes, Peter, some trees are trying to direct you through a forest after falling from the middle of the street, and this isn’t even the weirdest thing that’s happened to you.” He sighed. “What the hell is wrong with my life?" He took another deep breath to calm himself down, but didn't quite manage to do so. Hesitantly, he started moving into the woods. "Are these Ents? Have I traveled somehow to Middle Earth? Please let it be Middle Earth, that’d be so cool...”

Even though his tone was light and joking, the weigh in his chest turned his steps heavy.

He kept walking for some time, trying to ease his thoughts out loud with not-so-witty remarks (and with no noticeable success either). After the initial shock he started wondering if Ned and MJ were okay and how he was going to get back to them. Because he still didn’t know how he even got there in the first place. And yes, it was making him very anxious. Had it only happened to Peter or where his friends (and maybe even his classmates) dragged along with him? If he didn’t get back soon, what would May do? Would they think him dead? Would someone play the Mii Channel theme on his fake funeral? And would someone realize that Spider-Man and Peter Parker had disappeared yet again at the same time and finally connect the dots?

Aaand he was spiraling through the sticky, draining rabbit hole that was his anxiety. Hence the (not) witty remarks that no-one would be hearing.

With his mind totally focused on the “what if”s and definitely not on the road, Peter almost found himself in the depths of a cold and uninviting pond.

 _Holly heck, thank God I didn’t fall into that. This day already sucks enough, I don’t need to be soaking while I search for the exit door._ Peter stood there for a couple of seconds, trying to gather his wits and understand what was happening. He furrowed his brow. _Why are the trees leading me here? Do they want me to go inside? Or cross it? What if they want me to…?_

He heard something that made his train of thought leave the station and never come back.

A haunting, desperate song colored by a young man’s voice traveled quietly, shyly, almost like it didn’t want to be noticed, yet it also carried an urgency that made Peter shiver, and he was sure he would have never heard it had it not been for his enhanced senses. He tried to find the source of the song and there, a little bit further on the side of the pond, he found way more than what he was looking for:

It was him, the boy Peter had seen a glimpse of at the Fall. Even this far away he could still recognize his silhouette and aura, and his face was both anxious and deeply focused on whatever he was doing. He was sitting, his head hovering over the water while his hands were doing figures on the surface. Besides him, a lot of small white stones and different kinds of flowers were displayed in God knows what array. He was still quietly singing the song, almost like he was talking to the part of the pond he was so desperately focused on, when his face contorted into a mask of total dread. He looked up, apparently scared, and then turned his face to look directly at Peter.

It felt like falling all over again, but this time it lasted just a couple of seconds and the only thing he could see was the young man’s figure. Before he could even process what was going on, the boy made a gesture with his hands, picked up everything he had sitting around and started running into the depths of the forest.

The first thing Peter thought was that he missed the song (such an enchanting song…!); the second thing, a heartbeat later, was “What the hell?”, and the third was that he was already screwed.

The trees, the leaves and the grass kept on chanting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m gonna drop this chapter here right after posting the first one because I have no self restrain (lol). Also, The Fall is a short chapter.
> 
> Here are the color keys for this chapter!
> 
> https://neddea.tumblr.com/post/634634516455096320/its-a-little-bit-late-since-ive-already-posted
> 
> Hope you like it!
> 
> Come say hi on Tumblr and Instagram if you want! @neddea


	3. Friendly foresthood Spider-man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter just wanted to go home. He really did. His Spidey-sense, though? It had its own agenda.
> 
> Looks like the forest is his new neighborhood, and he will keep it safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for panic attacks, although it’s not very explicit.

The trees, the leaves and the grass kept on chanting, and they sounded very insistent on Peter following the young man. Still, Peter was frozen in panic. The other boy hadn’t looked too happy to see him, maybe he should just leave him alone. Besides, he had to find a way to get back home. He couldn’t leave just like that, May was going to have the scare of a lifetime. Nervously, he started pacing around, threading his hands through his own hair unconsciously and creating a mess he’d have hated if he knew what he'd been doing. At this point, his Spidey-sense was making itself subtly known, and it was adding to his anxiety. 

_Come on, I don’t even know where I am._ He took a deep breath and, to fight off the anxiety, nervously took his phone out of his pocket. When he was like this, his brain would just yeet itself out of existence and wave goodbye at him while falling with a parachute from far, far away. Logic was nowhere to be found, and that made him even more anxious. So he had to bring it back by sheer force. One step at a time. First step: he didn’t know where he was? Look on Google Maps. Next step: how would he get back to New York? That’s a question for the future Peter, since as soon as he found out where he was at that moment he would have enough data to answer it. He checked his notification screen.

No signal.

_GREAT_.

Okay, that was his cue to panic. He was already digging the ground in circles with his pacing, how was increasing his speed going to make it worse?

_What should I do? Like, I should find the way back home, but I wanna make sure that boy’s okay? But what if I get myself deeper into this situation? I already have too much on my plate, thank you very much. But what if he needs help? Oh God…_

There was, though, one thing he did know: if he met the boy’s gaze again, he would probably never leave his side. His senses, his soul, his entire entity ached to be close to him, and he wondered if it was linked to the foreboding feeling he had while falling. 

He felt a chill run down his spine.

Trying to regain a little bit of control of his situation, he paused his nervous pace. He took a deep breath. 

_Okay, okay… Oh, God. Okay. So. My Spidey-sense is getting annoying, and that means bad news. Okay, step one: put on the suit, just in case._ He opened his eyes when something struck him. _Oh, I’m an idiot! Maybe Karen can find a way back or something! A’ight, that’s step one. Step two: ask Karen._ He took his suit out of the backpack, knocking about some of his books, his jacket, a charger battery and a couple of forgotten things he'd shoved into it, and started changing clothes, but apparently the universe wanted him to go faster as his sixth sense flared up in the general direction of the place the young man had disappeared into a couple of minutes before. Frowning, he tried to focus his hearing and discern what was happening: he could hear a distant discussion, and although he was too far away to understand what was being said, he could pretty much guess how it was going. _Shit_. He quickly finished suiting up, took his backpack with him and rushed into the forest, all his previous doubts and fears left behind. He’d ask Karen later.

Soon enough he found the source of the conflict in a clearer part of the woods, and it wasn't looking extremely good. On Peter's left there stood the young man, attempting to make himself look taller than he already was but not quite managing to appear intimidating; on Peter's right, four men, each bigger, bushier and grimmer than the one before, were subtly (or so they tried) smirking and sweet (or so they tried) talking their prey. Peter… could not make any sense of what was being said. It kind of sounded like French, but the iconic "r"s weren't there and everything else too was off. And, more importantly, their clothes were… Old? Not, like, worn off and used, but the style was quite old fashioned: some type of very long linen shirt, very tight pants, pointy leather shoes, a… was that a turban?, parts of leather armour, quivers and various old-school weapons. Clearly **not** what he was expecting. _What. The hell._ As Peter observed them, both sides continued their banter, getting more and more aggressive fairly quickly. Shoot, Peter was hoping they would sort it out peacefully and he wouldn't need to barge in, but when did they ever? These were clearly thugs.

The mystery kid was, in all fairness, managing to defend himself well enough. He was visibly distressed, sure, but he wasn't letting those bastards get too much into his skin. He even managed to say something with enough bite that the grizzly bear quartet stuttered and looked exquisitely pissed off. Peter almost barked out loud. The four aces didn't find it just as funny, and started gripping their weapons while asking angrily what Peter would tentatively translate to " _What the fuck did you just say?"_ . The young man nervously stood his ground and replied with another (probably) witty snark. Oh, boy, didn't that piss them off even more. One of them apparently had had enough of this situation and drew a short sword and a dagger; the rest followed suit right after and, to Peter's surprise, instead of attacking their prey, they all banged both of their weapons together, their clungs and clangs resonating through the forest and annoying the hell out of the spiderling. Sometimes he **loathed** his super senses. He quickly put on his mask to cancel some of the noise and focused back on the scene before him to figure out why the hell they were doing that.

Peter wasn’t expecting to find the boy drowning in his own terror, but there he was. He had started sweating, shaking and hyperventilating, his heartbeat was through the roof and his eyes were moving fast and erratically, like he was trying to find something else that wasn’t quite there. The four thugs creeped closer to him.

“Peter, there is a high chance he is having a panic attack”, Karen’s soothing voice informed inside his mask. “I’d suggest getting him out of this situation and helping him calm down when he’s safe.”

“Yeah, okay, thanks Karen”, he replied in a hushed tone. Although, with the concert the four horsemen of the Nopocallypse were drawing from their make-shift instruments, whispering didn't seem that much needed. He launched himself into the fray. "Well, goodbye to the quiet stroll through the park. Hey, guys." 

Funny how, despite looking so different from Peter's usual run off the mill thugs and bullies, they didn't differ much in their reaction to Spider-man's appearance. They had swords and shit, and he was just a tiny little guy in a spandex suit, no weapons whatsoever. One would think they wouldn't be bothered, or maybe annoyed, but nope: they were downright creeped out. He slowly moved to shield the young man ( _I'm gonna have to name him somehow_ , he thought) with his own body, praying that it would somehow help calm him down. 

"So, I'm lost and I would really like to go back to New York, can you guys give me some directions? These trees all look the same to me."

The four Einsteins might have thought it was a good idea to try to shoo him away like they would an animal, for some reason, but with the clear fear in their eyes it didn't have much effect. Maybe it was the mask. Or perhaps the eyes. Definitely the eyes. 

Peter tried his best to channel his inner Tibetan fox spirit and let them know with his body language he was not impressed.

"Are all the folks around here just as welcoming as you? And here I thought for a second this could be a nice holiday destination…"

At this point, Peter was kind of on autopilot, looking for a safe way out yet observing his enemies in case there was no option but to fight. The most obvious threat was their weapons: the swords could be a hindrance to them if he managed to lure them deeper into the forest, that was an option, but there were still daggers to take into account. Peter could still hear the young man ( _Should I name him Mark?_ ) Mark’s heartbeat, beating fast as a fleeing bird. Peter turned around to face and soothe him with some hushed words, but it only proved to make it worse. Mark took a step back, a terrified expression painted on his face. On the other side, the grimy quartet was once again ready to charge, swords in hand.

He had to get Mark out of there, fast. Fighting them didn’t seem like a wise option: their range was wider than his, he wasn’t used to this environment, they could distract him in order to get to Mark. Too many disadvantages. But they didn’t seem to recognize him. At least he had the surprise factor on his side.

Peter looked around, trying to find some way to lower their advantages. An idea came to his mind. 

“Got it, you don’t like tourists. Your loss.” He faced Mark once again and slowly approached him with a placating gesture. “Hey, I’m here to help. It's okay”. Mark wasn’t having it, though, and took a couple of nervous steps back. His breathing had become shorter and quicker. The brutes started their assault, yelling like madmen. Time to get into action.

Peter jumped in Mark’s direction while shooting a web into a thick tree. As soon as he got a hold of the other man’s frame, he launched both of them into the air. He heard the Unremarkable Four gasp in surprise, and he smirked as the air whistled in his ear. The pair started running into the thicker part of the forest, Peter keeping his hold on Mark, and the thugs followed them after sheathing their swords. They wouldn’t be able to maneuver such long weapons there, the place was crammed with logs and trees. Step one of the plan: success. Now, he had to come up with step two.

“ _Hey, guys, do you think this guy has a “Mark” kinda face? I’m not sure it fits him, to be honest!_ ”, he shouted at full lung capacity. He knew they were not going to answer, but it was Peter’s coping mechanism and he wasn’t going to change it at that moment.

What he didn’t take into account was Mark’s reaction to the whole situation. He probably still was in the middle of a panic attack and the added surprises were not welcomed. He tried to get rid of the strange... _stranger_ while he kept running away from the mobsters, the branches of the trees cutting into the skin of his hands and rasping his clothes. Try as he may, the figure in red and blue had an iron grip and wasn’t yielding despite his best efforts. He felt trapped.

“Hey, wait, don’t worry, it’s okay!” Peter tried to calm him down, but Mark ( _maybe he’s a Mortimer?_ ) didn’t look like he understood what he was saying. “I’m trying to help!” Luckily, they were a little bit faster than the screaming gorillas. They weren’t getting them any time soon.

“I’m not sure about Mark”, he shouted back at them. Again. “I’m considering that maybe his name could be Mortimer! No, maybe it’s Percival! What do you think?”

Peter should have known better. Parker luck struck again, and so did an arrow into a nearby tree. The feathers in its rear grazed Mark’s arm, and he only got away from its path thanks to Peter’s Spidey sense and automatic response. He had to come up with a plan, asap. He held Mark tighter and, instead of just running, he jumped ahead over and over again. His trajectory was an erratic one in an attempt to discourage the brutes from sending another arrow their way.

He heard Mark muttering something hastily. Then, he felt his trembling fingers dig into his arm, and a slightly unpleasant energy ran through his muscles there. They looked at each other in confusion. The grizzly foursome leveraged the distraction and shot again. Peter pushed Mark back and the arrow darted between them. The young man’s face was almost comically shocked.

_Fuck it_ , Peter thought. _I have to calm him down or we’re not gonna make it in one piece_. He grabbed him, once again, and launched the two of them into the air, climbing the trees and resurfacing over their top.

For a moment, peace found its way to the two young men, and they stayed over the emerald sea around them catching their breath while the thugs yelled below them. The young man was trembling still, his stomach contracted in a knot and a sharp pain blossoming in his chest. The terror he had been feeling this whole time grew until it swallowed his entire soul, choking him with a brutal force. Peter sensed his panic, and quickly pulled his mask off. He made the other boy look at him and attempted to make the most amicable expression he’d ever done. Whispering calming words he now assumed the young man before him couldn’t understand, he held his hand upwards between them as a peace offering; if he wanted space, he had the chance to reject it, but if he needed physical contact, Peter was willing to help. The boy’s eyes, now alight with recognition, searched for something in Peter’s. His face was contorted in a complex expression. After a beat, he reached out for the offering hand. He took a deep breath, his eyes closed. At that moment, Peter knew he had been right after he had met him at the pond.

He didn’t want to leave this boy’s side.

Around them, the leaves vibrated and sung with renovated energy.

He was so entranced watching him controlling his own breath, his eyelashes fluttering every time he opened his eyes, that he almost fell off the tree when the brutes started cutting it down. Mark looked at him, noticeably calmer than before but still anxious. Then he looked behind Peter, and his face glowed with surprise and hope. He frantically pointed in that direction while saying some ininteligible words, taking Peter’s arm and urging him to get going.

Of course, the four idiots had to make it difficult for them to reach their destination, whatever that was, and as soon as the boys fled their resting place they unsheathed their weapons once again. They hastily followed their trail, and when they were sure they were in range they started clanging their swords and other metal objects, creating a disconcerting concert.

Peter audibly groaned. “Not again. I’m so done”. He felt Mark flinch and tense by his side. He looked down and yep, there they were, annoying the hell out of him. He blasted some web at one of their weapons and yeeted it in a random direction. They gasped and froze for a second. Mark got a moment to put himself together, but too soon they continued directing their hellish concert. Peter stopped and tried to signal that he should stay there for a moment. The other boy looked terrified.

In typical Spider-man fashion, he shot a web to a nearby tree and swung. He kicked a stunned thug right in the chest, leaving him out of breath and flying back a couple of trees. The rest of the group glared at him in disbelief and terror as he gracefully landed. “Okay, you’re not helping me much with his name”. He stood up, managing to look menacing despite his lithe build. “This is painful to admit, but… maybe you don’t like me”.

Up ahead, at the top of the trees, the boy observed in awe as the stranger managed to avoid most of their attacks, bouncing from trunk to trunk with impossible flexibility and haste. His attackers were shouting half-boiled insults at him, trying to scare him off, but to no avail. What was he? After a minute of this entrancing yet otherworldly dance, most of their attackers were left with no weapons, yet the boy was clearly having difficulty moving through the forest. The young man frowned, sweating and trembling. He looked once again in the direction they had been moving towards and, taking a deep breath, he shouted at the merry party below him, gathering their attention. He then touched the branch of the tree he was standing at, and the branch grew wider and reached further into the forest. He followed it as if a demon was chasing after him.

Down at ground level, the eyes in Peter’s mask widened to their maximum capacity. _That. Was. So cool. Is he a mutant? Or maybe he’s half man, half tree? Half ent??_ He saw the Idiotic Four sprint, not understanding that it was probably a trap. Peter sighed. They were dumb, but he wasn’t going to complain. He reached the top of the trees and met Mark, who was still doing that cool thing that made the branches and trunks go wherever he wanted. That was pretty useful.

Suddenly, there were no more branches they could use: they had reached a pond, not very wide but enough that he couldn’t reach the other side of the forest with ease. The taller boy seemed to be indicating they had to go back to ground level, so Peter held him and just jumped. He heard the other’s heartbeat spike, and his arms tensed around Peter’s body in fear. The herd of brutes was almost there, but now Peter could fight them slightly better. He used his own body as a shield for the other boy. The thugs appeared soon enough. He jumped and kicked one of them in the face. While fencing off the second idiot, a third one approached him. His Spidey sense warned him and he ducked down, just in time to avoid a sweaty punch to the head. The fourth and second brutes attacked at the same time. He blocked one of them, but the other took a funny smelling dagger and grazed his shoulder. His Spidey sense went momentarily haywire. He stumbled back but recovered immediately, trying to analyze the situation and draw a plan out of it. He had to protect the boy, no matter how. The rising humidity of the place was distracting him. Maybe he could use the pond to his advantage…

Apparently, he was late in coming up with that idea. Before he could even understand what was going on, a brutal stream of water from behind him swept the henchmen from their feet with supernatural force, threw them into the air like clumsy, noisy leaves and gathered them again to drive them far into the woods.

_What. The hell. Was that._

Peter stood there, looking into the depths of the forest where the thugs had disappeared, breathing heavily. How had that happened? Stunned, with his eyes wide and his mouth half opened, he turned around to see if his new friend (maybe?) was alright, he found the answer to some of his questions.

There, by the shore, the young man was on his knees; one hand touching the surface of the pond, the other elegantly pointing to the forest. A thin stream of water surrounded him like a protective ghost. He was having difficulties trying to breathe regularly, and his face was contorted in a pained expression, but his body started to relax after a beat. 

The danger was gone. The pond rested, its chill waters calm once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! No beta for English grammar, though, so please do tell me if there's something off or downright wrong!


	4. A thug is a thug, no matter the time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter finds out he just *might* have travelled back to the Middle Ages. And he makes a new friend.
> 
> Cool. How does he get back home?
> 
> Apparently, the Universe does not want him to.

The danger was gone. The pond rested, its chill waters calm once again. The young man was beginning to relax too, dropping his arms to the ground and letting his whole body plop down, sitting in a haphazardly manner. He was sweating, his eyelids closing and opening in a slow tempo, his chest expanding and contracting in a steady cadence.

Peter stood petrified for a pretty minute, trying to 1: let what just had happened sink in and 2: let the young… wizard? respite momentarily. That had taken him by surprise, he wasn’t gonna lie. But his friendly-neighborhood side was screaming at him that he had to take the victim out to a safe place, so he started walking towards him.

As soon as the superhero put a foot closer, the magician's shoulders rose up, his whole body tensing like a bow again. He looked at Peter with uncertainty painted in his eyes. 

Peter tried to appear as inoffensive as possible. He took his mask off in a very slow manner, with no harsh movements as to not startle his new acquaintance. His hands rose up, palms out, trying to convey his non-confrontational intentions. He must have succeeded at that, because the boy stood where he was and let him come closer. He still wouldn't take his eyes off of Peter, scared but too tired to run away. There was something else in his expression, but he couldn't quite read the young wizard. The spiderling decided he had to build a bridge between them. 

"That was really cool, dude" He knew he couldn't really understand what he was saying, but he still attempted to go for something that could give calming vibes. Then, he thought he should also try to do the most obvious thing when meeting someone. "My name is Peter", he said slowly while he put his palm on his heart.

The young man's face shone with recognition, albeit a surprised one at that. He squinted his eyes, seemingly deciding if he should respond to that or not. Finally, he answered a strongly accented "Hail be thou". 

The surprise volley bounced back at Peter, and he opened his mouth and eyes in a very accurate representation of the surprised face emoji. On one hand, THAT WAS ENGLISH!; on the other hand, was that English? Did he hear “Hail”? “Thou”?

So, Peter was a scientist in the making. He had formulated a hypothesis earlier, at the beginning of the fight he witnessed, by which he could have somehow travelled back to the Middle Ages. That, or he had accidentally bumped into the filming of a movie and the director thought all of this was too amusing and had commanded the actors to keep acting not unlike a Borat film and oh God they had filmed his face while wearing the Spider-man suit and his identity was going to- No, the evidence so far didn't support that hypothesis very strongly. He would've heard, seen, _noticed_ something with his enhanced senses. (His brain still liked to torture him with the possibility, though.) There were other plausible outcomes, but Peter didn't have enough data to come to a definitive conclusion. By the logic in Occam's razor, time traveling should be the last option, but now here he was, attempting at a conversation with someone who seemed to speak EARLY MODERN ENGLISH. Granted, anyone could learn it no matter the time they lived in, but… It still was odd. And, honestly, he had already traveled to another planet and fought a war against _aliens_. This wouldn't even be the weirdest thing he'd ever seen. 

Peter suddenly realised he had been staring for too many seconds now and hadn't answered to… whatever that greeting was. He forced his brain to come back to *the communication skills zone* and actually engage in a conversation. "You understand English! That's great! Wait, no, that wouldn't be it in Early Modern English, would it?" He was, like always, speaking fast as a bullet. He tried again, slowing down a notch. "Doest thou… Uh, understand me?" Okay, that was cringy. He regretted not giving enough attention to his Literature classes before. 

It seemed to do the trick, though. The wizard (witch? How did it work? Could men be witches?) made some kind of affirmative sound that sounded more or less close to "oui" (or did he say "oil"?), and then gestured with his hands something that could represent "small". _Or little_ , Peter thought. This boy understood a little bit of (Early Modern) English. Finally, some small miracle had brought good news to him. Peter mentally celebrated it. _Fuck you, Parker Luck. Not today._

Peter smiled at him and nodded, trying to say “it’s okay” in a way that was universal. The other boy looked like he understood and relaxed.

"My name is Baudran. Thou art… Piers?" 

“Pierre’s?... no, no, Peter" he exaggeratedly pronounced the t. "My name is Peter” He offered his hand, but it only startled ~~Mark~~ Baudran and made him look at it with clear confusion painted all over his face. Peter let his arm retaliate, clearly embarrassed. “Erm… Sorry, it just means “nice to meet you” -no, wait, that would be “nice to meet thee”? Thou?”

“But thou hast no…” he made a gesture around his forearm and pinched his long sleeve, which in turn confused Peter.

He suddenly turned his head back to the forest. His finely tuned ears had caught some noise from where the brutes had disappeared after Baudran’s merciless wash-over. To be fair, it could be any animal or anything else wandering through the maze of trees, but he definitely didn’t want to risk it. He looked back at the witch.

“We gotta go- sorry, we have to go, we are not safe here”. Peter looked at his face, trying to gauge if he’d understood what he said. Baudran turned his gaze to the forest, and he seemed to at least have an inkling on the meaning of Peter’s request. He once more looked scared. “Let’s go”, Peter softly said as he approached him and tugged at his sleeve, urging Baudran to follow him in the opposite direction of where he was still looking at.

They dove into the tree maze once more, and soon the young witch regained control of his nerves and led the way. He still seemed anxious, but apparently he wasn't on the verge of another panic attack anymore. Which, honestly, was a big win in Peter's book.

  
  
  


They walked for some time. He was feeling a little bit weird, his Spidey sense going softly on and off in a pattern that didn't make much sense. And the deeper they went into the forest, the more Peter noticed that creepy humming he had heard after The Fall. It had changed, though, not only being louder (would that be the right term? He wasn't exactly _hearing_ it, he just… knew it was there, he could _sense_ it) but also more chaotic, like a myriad of voices inside a church, reverberating and flying freely from stone walls to colorful windows.

Only this was made by the _trees_. In a forest. Or at least he thought it was the trees. At this point, if someone told him the fairies or some other weird stuff were the culprits, he would just think "yeah, alright, it makes just as much sense. Why the hell not". One would think he should be used to background noise, living in New York City of all places, but one would be wrong.

That thought made him stop, lowkey startling Baudran in the process. New York. He had to go back home. As soon as he made sure the other boy was safe, he had to find a way back. He could ask him, he surely knew his way through this damned labyrinth, but how could he ask about it in a way that made any sense? "Hey, do you know the route to New York City, a place that may or may not have been founded yet?" Yep, no. "Would you happen to know what the heck was that vortex through which I came here?" That would be better, but the witch hadn't seen it with his eyes. Hey, but maybe he was responsible for that thing? May Baudran be the one that had created the… That?

Speaking of _witch_ , he was confusedly staring at him, his body slightly inclined backwards, as if he wasn't sure he trusted Peter or didn't think he was a stable person. Aaand he probably had asked something, but Peter's brain was too busy to notice. It felt kinda foggy in there at that moment. 

"Uuuh… Hey, I, uuuh, I came here through some kind of… Portal? Vortex? Tunnel… thing? and I don't know my way back home." Was that phrasing too complex to understand for someone new to the language? "I was in my city- town?, and then I was falling for some time, and I could see images, and I saw you, and then I landed on this forest." Baudran was definitely confused now "Eeeh… Do you know what it is? And how I can get back home?" 

He definitely didn’t know what Peter was talking about. He probably didn’t even understand what he said, judging by his silent answer and his really unconvinced expression.

“Eh… nevermind, I’ll figure it out somehow”, he answered while making a negative gesture, and restarted the stroll. Baudran walked by his side, looking at his face like he was unsure of Peter’s dismissal.

“Thou art… mmmh, felinde sik?”

“Uuuh...” That startled Peter. It was the second time he had witnessed Baudran speaking. “Sorry, what?” It was still so bizarre hearing Early Modern English. No, wait, it was _earlier_ than Early, right? Middle English? What went before "early"?

"Art thou sik?", he repeated. Peter finally placed the expression the witch had painted on his face: concerned.

"Am I sick…? Uh, no, I'm okay, maybe a bit… Nervous?", Peter said, trying to mimic with his hands his message. "But thank you for asking!" 

To be fair, he was feeling a little bit off, but given the circumstances, he thought, he was doing well enough. Also, the fact that his Spidey sense hadn't stopped buzzing was driving him up the wall. He wanted to go back home soon and leave all of this behind.

  
  


They kept walking for a while, Peter following Baudran through the wooden maze and wondering how he could find the right path when every tree looked exactly the same. The only reference he had was a shy murmur of a brook ahead, but he couldn't guess how far it was. The witch seemed to feel his uneasiness (maybe he could read minds?) and glanced at him, a small smile on his lips.

"Min hous is nere"

It took Peter a few seconds to discern the meaning of his scarce words, but he got there. His brain cells were trying their best to cooperate. 

He nodded in acknowledgement and, soon enough, they reached the brook Peter had been hearing. It was smaller than he thought, but he was grateful for a change in the environment nonetheless. They followed its stream down. Five minutes later, the forest cleared to present them a pond that was closely surrounded by trees, as if they were zealous of the crystalline waters. 

  
  


There, at the right by the shore, stood a curious cottage. Made of timber, stones and probably some kind of miracle, its upper part looked like it was tired, crooked as it was, but it was sort of charming; it had an addendum that hovered over the garden, and the myriad of flowers and plants that surrounded the building made it quite the bucolic view. Peter knew a couple of people that would've loved to make it into a post or two of mood boards.

Baudran seemed happy to finally be at home, and he looked so much more relaxed and safe. Peter wondered if it wasn't dangerous to live in the middle of a forest, especially after the incident with the thugs, but he guessed it wasn't his business and that he probably had thought it through. The young magician kept walking towards a fence with an entrance.

"Uuuh… Baudran, I have to go", Peter stopped him.

The witch turned around, startled by the other boy's sudden disruption. He didn't seem to understand the words themselves, yet his face told he got the meaning behind them. He seemed undecided, but finally asked: "Doest thou… wante a…?". He furrowed his brow, trying to find the correct word, and ultimately gave up and made a gesture, imitating someone drinking from a cup. Oh, that was nice of him. Not many people offered him something for his help, but it warmed Peter's heart when they did. Nevertheless, he had to go back to his own home.

"Uh, thank you!", he squeaked shyly, "But I have to go back home. I'm sorry, but thanks!"

Baudran seemed to understand what he meant, and he made a politely sad face at it. It looked, though, like he was trying to cover how he had relaxed a little bit more. He also looked like he needed a nap.

"Thanke thee"

An awkward silence stretched between them, and Baudran seemed reluctant to give him his back, so he started taking some steps backwards. He shyly raised his hand and waved it. 

"Well, good bye. Stay safe!"

"God bwy yee", the magician replied with a small voice. 

Peter turned back to where they'd come from, leaving Baudran standing alone by the fence, watching the peculiar boy with the peculiar outfit disappear between the trees.

The forest trembled, an unheard chant filling the air around the cottage.

  
  
  
  


Peter followed the stream to the point where they had found it before, and then turned left as he remembered the path they had walked by. Before he could start going in circles, he fished his phone from his belt pocket and used the compass to guide him. He had begun the trek back with energy, thinking about the sandwich he was going to devour when he got home, his stomach doing a backflip from the thought, and these ideas were an attempt at keeping his anxiety at bay. But soon enough he started to feel worse, the spider-nagging at the back of his neck going crazier and crazier by the minute. The humming he'd been hearing since he fell into this place was growing in its intensity too, and that wasn't helping. By the time he put his mask on once again to ask Karen if there was any danger nearby, his hands were lightly shaking and his vision was having trouble focusing. Uh-oh.

"Karen? Hi, uh, is there any danger nearby? My Spidey-sense is going crazy, but I don't-"

"Peter," she answered in her calm, slightly inhumane voice, "you seem to be having a fever, and your vitals suggest that there is a health issue of moderate or high risk."

He abruptly stopped, although the world around him kept moving. GREAT, his day was going GREAT. He had to go back home ASAP.

"Karen, can you run a diagnosis?", he asked and hated how wobbly his voice sounded.

"I'm sorry, Peter. I'm afraid I'm not equipped to do that." Just GREAT. "If I had to guess," she momentarily stopped, something she never did. He didn't like what that meant. "If I had to guess, I'd suggest entertaining the idea that you might have been poisoned." What. "At the fight by the pond about two hours ago, one of your enemies managed to cut through the suit, thus having an opportunity to get some poison on the blade to your bloodstream."

Ooooh, no. No no no no. He remembered right there and then that it was at that moment when his sense had started working up. That didn't look good. Not good at all.

"Okay, okay…", he tried to calm his breathing to no avail. "Karen, what do you suggest we do?" 

She stayed silent for some freezing seconds. Oh, no.

"I'm… Not sure, Peter. Maybe you should find the other boy, he might have some remedy or know someone who does. With your healing factor, your body probably just needs some help to get started. I'm sorry, I don't have any better suggestions."

Right at that moment, that idea sounded just right. It was going to be awkward, maybe, "hey, remember that I just said bye not an hour ago? Well, hello again", but he was feeling like downright _hell_ and he needed some help. And, if all went wrong and he didn't make it through, at least he didn't want to be alone. As much as he appreciated Karen's presence, he longed more than ever for some physical comfort. He thought of Ben. He thought of Tony. His chest constricted, his lungs gave up on trying to control the air inside them.

"Peter, you're hyper-"

Before she could finish, the hair in his arms spiked violently, and he heard the footsteps of a group of heavy men and the clank of metal against metal by his left side. They were close, so close, and he cursed this damned potential poison for not letting him notice the danger until this late in the game.

He shot a web to a tree in the opposite direction, but his arm felt like it was attached to a heavy rock, making him miss his mark and hit the trunk instead of a branch. There was no time to rectify, so he used it to catapult himself further away from the nearing mob. He landed haphazardly.

The Not-so-fantastic Four from before appeared right where he had been, their eyes gleaming with surprise and ill-intended happiness. They started shouting joyfully, giving one in the group some vigorous pats on the back in celebration. The man almost fell on his face. 

If Peter weren't feeling so sick, he would be really annoyed by the grizzly quartet. They behaved like very stupid frat boys about to commit some stupid felony and feeling stupidly proud of it. He had seen their kind before. He didn't like them too much.

But Peter was feeling very sick at that moment, and the annoyance had to seclude itself below the incessant stream of panic and dread his mind was drowning in. His body felt heavy, heavier than before the spider bite, heavier than when he was clinging to a spaceship for dear life, heavier than when his parents left him in his uncle's house. He tried to hoist himself up to the crown of the trees, but only managed to get a hold of a branch and hardly stand on it. He heard the stupid not-frat boys laugh in joy. He had to get away from them, fast.

The four thugs commenced their ill-fated march, step by step by step by step by step getting closer to Peter. He jumped forward, but his legs didn't respond as well as he hoped. He grabbed another branch, managing to break his fall, and landed a little bit further ahead. It wasn't enough, all of his movements slowed down, his brain fogged, his senses dazed. His blood froze in its path every bit of his limbs. His heartbeat and the crunch of their footsteps were now a symbiosis, permanently plugging his hearing.

When a hard fist connected with his stomach, he didn't even hear it happening.

Through the haze in his brain, in the following minutes he somehow catalogued a number of hits he had both received and given, almost like he was watching it from below the waters of a lake, distorted and mostly muted. Even Karen's voice was merely audible. But when one of them tried to pry away his mask, he violently resurfaced, his lungs burning from the effort. 

It all hit him at once: the both sharp and dull pain over his entire body, the metal smell of blood, the burning and freezing feeling of his fever, the sick green of the forest mixed with the gleaming eyes of those vindictive and violent men… the familiar panic of his identity being revealed. That well-known fear took over his consciousness, and he instinctively kicked the brute in the face. He jumped away impossibly high from the circle they'd created and they looked at him in hardly veiled fear. He shot a web at a tree on their right and yanked with way more force than he thought he was capable of at that moment, adrenaline making his already inhumane strength come back for a moment. The roots cracked, the truck loomed over them with the calm certainty of a tsunami about to streak down. Right before it fell, Peter managed to back away from the danger, and he ran and ran and ran and ran…

His body was going to give up sooner or later, but he hoped to get away from them as much as possible. With a little bit of uncharacteristic luck, he could even find the way back to Baudran's house and ask for help. 

He’d hoped in vain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! Happy new year! (It's January 18th, but who cares)
> 
> Fun fact! Baudran thinks at first Peter's name is "Piers", and he's actually correct. Piers is the Old French name for Pétros (Greek) or Petrus (Latin), as is Peter. Peter later thinks Baudran had said "Pierre", which is also basically the same name but a more modern version of it (Middle French). ~The more you know~
> 
> I'm sorry this has taken so long, I just got a new awesome job that has left me with little to no energy left to do much else. It didn't help that I hit a metaphorical wall with this chapter and had to spend a hell of a lot of time researching Middle English and what not (but I actually love doing that kinda stuff, so yay!). Thanks a million times to all of you who still want to read the hot mess that is this fic!
> 
> Also, note that English is my second language, so I've probably made grammatical mistakes! Please do notify me if you find any! The same goes for historical facts, I'd LOVE to be corrected if there's something wrong!
> 
> There's plenty of art related to this story in my Instagram (@Neddea), including the concept art for the cottage, for those who want to take a look!


	5. Blood to blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baudran had hoped, foolish he, that he’d get some sleep and rest after the eventful morrow he had had.
> 
> He'd hoped in vain.
> 
> The Gods were definitely trolling him, weren't they?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning!! 
> 
> -Description of injuries, but nothing too gruesome (I think).

He’d hoped in vain.

He’d hoped, foolish he, that he’d get some sleep and rest after the eventful morrow he had had. As soon as he entered through the door of his room, his sole focus was the warm bed he had left undone in his hurry earlier that day. He lay on the comforter, not changing his clothes, and waited for sleep to come.

And come it did, but it was restless and ill-fated. 

At first it was not especially worthy of note, just picking some herbs from the garden (even though, as his mind noticed through the haze, not all of them had the same flowering and harvest time). Marigold, marshmallows, mullein, feverfew, yarrow and his personal pride and joy, Indian saffron. 

Then, two ravens entered the scene. They did not look relevant, did not act differently, but Baudran's consciousness concentrated on their presence, just in the mysterious fashion dreams work in. Their eyes gleamed, and he could not evade their knowing gaze.

Then, the ground beneath his feet grew sombrer and sombrer, streams of petite spiders flowing and flooding the base of his flowers. They did not all pursue the same goal nor followed the same direction, and their chaotic and hasty march suggested a panic that resonated all too well within his own body.

Then, a flash of garish light rose from the forest, the direction the spiders appeared to escape from. It chilled his bones like a winter river flowing through his veins and freezing everything on its path.

Then, then the spiders hastened their already frantic run, and behind them they left another creature surrounded by the mullein of the garden. These stood tall, impossibly tall over it, guarding it, caressing it, _mourning_ it. Baudran got closer to the figure. Horror awaited him like it was about to greet an old friend, like it _knew_ he was coming this time too, irredeemably, inevitably.

The plants gingerly moved, sensing his will but hesitant to show him, and left clear for his view a fairly new yet familiar face, now still as the moonless night, now cold and gray as the ashes of the wild bonfire.

The ravens produced a deep, rasping call. The spiders appeared again all over his body, reaching the flowers and plants he still had in hand, obsessively surrounding them. Some started dying and falling to the ground in a grotesque manner. 

Then, another flare roared from the same place as before. There were fewer and fewer spiders left. The plants withered. The pond turned black. The sky tinted red. 

Finally, when the third flash of light came upon him, he woke up with images of bloody ravens and emaciated arachnids behind his eyelids.

He loathed dreams like this. He despised them because he knew, with all of his body and soul, that they were not just dreams. The specification of the flowers he was picking? Suspicious. The dread he felt throughout the events and after waking up? Not helping. The two all-knowing ravens, not unlike Wodan's companions? A dead giveaway. 

The witch slumped in his bed, scowling at the wooden planks of the floor. He refused to let it get to him, he already had had too much that morrow and he deserved some rest. With a groan he gripped tightly the covers, turned his back to the door (as if that would make his problems go away) and laid down again with a fierce determination, closing his eyes with equal force. He was going to sleep, make some tasty meal afterwards, maybe read a nice book at eve with a lavender infusion in his hand, definitely put a couple of protection spells around himself, and let the world figure things out by itself. Besides, why should he do anything? He was just a lonely nobody. It would be presumptuous of him to think that he'd be powerful enough to change anything.

Outside the cottage, a careless breeze swayed the leaves of nearby trees. The gentle weather invited the animals out of their hideouts and they trotted and frolicked. An old hen chirped lazily. Some bees floated above the garden, buzzing happily. The water rocked a small boat delicately. A raven ominously cackled. Baudran gripped the covers as if he were falling free. He was going to stay. He was… 

  
  
  


He was taking his runes and leaving the house, galloping to the pond and feeling his heartbeat in his neck. As angry as he was at the universe for dumping this onto him (and at himself for going along with it), there was no point in staying at home if his mind would wander back to the dream on loop. He couldn't escape any way, or so it seemed. The gods would not let him.

Halfway to the pond, the witch slowly stopped his travel. His hands were quivering, his chest felt heavy and constricted, his sight unfocused. _That's not why you're doing this, and you are conscious of it_ , he argued with himself. _The Gods are not the reason why_ . He closed his eyes, exhaling a shaky breath. _I have to calm down. There is no way on this Earth that I can save him in such a pitiful state_ , he thought bitterly. The raven cackled again like it was laughing at him. He glared at it, and his anger grew just a tiny, little bit. _By God, I could be happily sleeping in bed, why do I have to…?_ He frowned once more, his eyes shut tightly once more. In his mind's eye he saw the familiar face of an old man. Ashen. Drained of all life. He inadvertently took a few steps back, holding a sob down in his chest. _What have I become? Back then I had all the power I ever wanted, but now my legs tremble and I can no longer breathe as I make a step through the threshold._ He acidly snickered. _My old self would despise my current self. Curse it, curse it all! I will get this right, by God I will._

He resumed his path to the pond, an angry pep in his step. _If the Gods' will is to help the weird young man from before (Piers? No, Pieter?), so be it, but I refuse to try to decipher some wacky dream and wander aimlessly. The earlier I get there, the earlier I get to come back home._ He stopped by the shore, sat down and put his runes in a specific formation he knew like the palm of his own hand, even though it wasn't quite the orthodox methodology ( _But it works for me_ , a part of his brain spat out with bitterness even in this circumstance). He focused on the clear waters in front of him. In just as clear a voice, he whispered " **Where will I find him?"** , and started humming a tenuous chant, hurried and slightly panicked. Slowly, or as slow as he could muster under this pressure, he touched the surface of the pond, drawing random figures with his finger.

With the calming repetitiveness of the chanting and the relaxing and grounding feeling of the water against his hand, after a minute or so he was solely focused on what he could see on the surface. His face got closer and closer without even realising, and soon enough the vision changed and he could almost feel a familiar place surrounding him. 

He finished the chant, thanked whomever it was helping him, and hurried back home to retrieve a couple of things that would come in handy in his trek (namely a mortar, a blanket, stripes of cloth, cinnamon tincture, a bottle of some spirit drink and food) and went to the garden to take some of the plants he had been recollecting in his dream. 

_If my witchy intuition is correct,_ he thought, _he will be needing all of it. And I need to get it right._

* * *

  
  


Not half an hour later, he arrived at the place he had seen in his vision, a clear in the forest with a small but recognisable stream that sprung from the ground at the centre. Everything seemed quiet, but for someone like him, trained to feel _something more_ and accustomed to the sounds of the forest, that quietness was almost deafening. Something was off. He sat down and waited for a couple of minutes. When he looked at the stream of water again, it was slightly tinted red. That was _not_ a good sign.

It seemed his dream was correct, and as much as he hated the situation he was also glad he had this ability. Panicking a little bit, he stood up and started walking frantically to the North-East; if the stream was carrying blood, the closest water current was the Ruisseau de Pont Dom Jean. _He_ had to be close and probably needed help, quickly.

He followed the sound of running water. When he found the Ruisseau, he took a quick glance up and down the stream, nervously looking for striking red and blue to pop out from all the green around, but he found nothing. A chill ran down his back. His heart started beating faster and faster, as if his own body were trying to be thrice as fast in order to find anything. He continued his path upstream, rationalizing that the water current couldn't have carried the blood from the other direction, focusing his sight in any small detail that could point out where the young man was.

Then, he saw him.

His heart fluttered, feeling both relieved and scared. The other young man was lying on the ground near the stream, still in that strange red and blue… skin?, but the dirt around him was also tinted crimson. Baudran's sight roamed rapidly over his figure, trying to take in all the injuries he had, but there were too many to count.

Baudran, his hands trembling, laid the blanket next to Peter, took his mask (?) off, gently tapped his face a couple of times trying to wake him up. Peter scarcely whined. The young witch took him by the armpits and managed to put him on the cloth, grabbed the top extremes and proceeded to pull towards where he'd come from. 

He thanked the gods for guiding Peter there on such dire circumstances. The Fountain of Youth, which had served in his dream both as a landmark and as a symbol for healing, was only a couple of minutes away. At moments like this, promptness could be the difference between life or death. And he knew, he knew oh so well: time, the subtle thief of life, waited for no one. Every drop of blood that managed to flee the young man's body added to the metallic scent that Lady Death sniffed to hunt down her prey. Baudran tightened his grip on the blanket. He could feel it in the air, the Reaper dancing, jubilous and preparing her scythe. A lone, involuntary tear escaped and mixed with the sweat on his face. _Please, not again. Not again. Not again._

The couple of minutes turned into many more, with Baudran's tender and delicate hands fighting to keep their hold on the cloth and pulling the weight. He knew they were going to hurt the following days. He knew it would hurt more if he didn't succeed. 

Finally placing Peter inside the small spring, the clear waters carefully embracing his silhouette, the witch breathed deeply. 

He had to take this red and blue… garment somehow, and since he didn't recognize the form nor saw any laces or fastening, he tried to rip it off with brute force - not his biggest talent, by far, but that would have to do. Except it didn't work. Whatever fabric this was made of was way more resilient than him. _Alright, stay calm_ , he tried to rationalize. Baudran, clearly not the calmest despite his own words, went to take the dagger out of his bag. 

And the dagger was not there _._

His mind, body and soul froze for a second. _I left it at home. I didn't take it. I left without it. I'm an absolute idiot. There's no time, there's no time, there's no time,_ his own mental voice provided. What could he do? He went back and forth, not even a step and a half each time before his panicked brain provided him with the idea of checking both options again and again and again. He thought of his mentor. What would he think of him, letting his fear overwhelm him? Would he sigh in that way of his, like he was pretty tired of having to take care of the young witch, managing to almost hide the tenderness and fondness in his brow, in the corner of his mouth? _He definitely would._ He panicked a little bit more.

Alright, he had to do something. Letting fear take control of his own mind and body was not leading him anywhere. He went back to Peter's unconscious form and commenced trying to figure how the garment worked. There had to be something. Anything. He tried at the back of the neck, but there was not any kind of fastening hid there. _Oh, no_ . He then tried for the waist, and maybe there was a belt of sorts there that would give him a hint. Not. _Shit_. He took a step backwards and looked again over his entire frame, desperate to find any clue. Baudran's face contorted in a confused expression: there was a figure at the center of his chest, made of a material different from the rest. After some seconds, he came to realize the shape aimed to resemble, to an extent, a rather geometric spider. He got a flashback from his dream, of all the spiders running from the forest, leaving behind them the young man's body, crawling up his own legs and torso to reach the flowers, dying by the hundreds. He took that as a sign because, in all honesty, that was the only thing he had at that point. He was getting extremely desperate. He hastily reached for the shape and attempted to girate it, to pull it, to open it in some way. Nothing worked. Peter was going to die and the only thing he had to do to help him was ripping this damned piece of fabric off of him. He felt, in a way that he wasn't sure if it was his powers or his imagination, the inevitable march of the soul-reaping scythe getting closer and closer by the moment. He started breathing heavily, fast, manically. He tugged and switched and tried anything that came to his mind. 

The garment did not budge. 

And Lady Death loomed over Baudran like she did a year ago.

He let a frustrated shout leave his mouth, and in his panic his fist bumped with the spider figure. Suddenly, the fabric around it started deflating. He froze in the middle of another try, his eyes round as the moon and almost shining with confused relief. He could not understand a thing, but he was going to take it astride and not ever think about it again. 

He quickly took the strange garment off, exposing all of the angry bruises and open injuries to his trained eye, letting them be washed by the gentle waters of the fountain. Several cuts -some deep and some superficial- were still leaking blood, and a vast array of dark patches covered his skin, connecting them like a malign cobweb. His forearm was bent at a suspicious angle, and Baudran suspected there were more broken bones along the beaten body. 

He tried to take a deep breath. He had some work to do, and thus he prepared himself: one of his hands touching the ground, still hissing with fresh wounds; the other inside the fountain, stilling in numbness. He could hear a raven nearby. Wodan, the Wise One, Lord of the undead, God of the Witches, was watching him. He absentmindedly sensed a hot and cold feeling travelling through his veins. He gathered air in his lungs, concentrating the energy on his hands, letting it flow from the ground to the water, and with a steady voice recited:

> **"Like bone-sprain,**
> 
> **so blood-sprain,**
> 
> **so joint-sprain:**
> 
> **Bone to bone,**
> 
> **blood to blood,**
> 
> **joints to joints,**
> 
> **so may they be glued"**

The stream started glowing slightly. Then Baudran took the yarrow, marshmallow and mullein out of his bag while Peter's worst wounds were cleansed by the brook's gentle current, the blood still pouring from his injuries. 

> **"Like bone-sprain,**
> 
> **so blood-sprain,**
> 
> **so joint-sprain:**
> 
> **Bone to bone,**
> 
> **blood to blood,**
> 
> **joints to joints,**
> 
> **so may they be glued"**

He continued his chanting as he hastily mashed the plants with a mortar and then mixed them with the sacred water and some powder. The palm of his hands stung with his own untreated wounds, and he tapped with his foot along the enchantment, a calming habit he very much needed at that moment. He inhaled deeply once again. 

> **"Like bone-sprain,**
> 
> **so blood-sprain,**
> 
> **so joint-sprain:**
> 
> **Bone to bone,**
> 
> **blood to blood,**
> 
> **joints to joints,**
> 
> **so may they be glued"**

At the third round of the incantation, the brilliance commenced to gain force. The blood transformed into almost invisible tendrils that rose up from the current, curling in the air as if they were searching for something. He could feel his face light up for a moment, a hesitant smile rising up. _It is working_ ! He retrieved some stripes of cloth and cinnamon tincture, washed his hands and, as fast as he'd ever been, bandaged his own hands. He couldn't attend to Peter's injuries with his open; that'd be unholy and, with all honesty, he didn't want more godly interventions. He already had way too much on his plate. He furrowed his brow. He shouldn't be thinking that in such circumstances. _Focus, Baudran_.

> **"Like bone-sprain,**
> 
> **so blood-sprain,**
> 
> **so joint-sprain:**
> 
> **Bone to bone,**
> 
> **blood to blood,**
> 
> **joints to joints,**
> 
> **so may they be glued"**

By the fourth round, a subtle noise could be heard in the meadow, akin to rocks grinding against each other but softer and muffled. The forearm that was twisted at the middle slowly regained its original form, and other parts of the young man's body moved almost imperceptibly. His chest rose fuller than before with the sudden breath he took, and Peter became conscious again a second after, screaming in pained agony. Baudran wanted to reach out, although he didn't know if he wanted to comfort him or just make him halt his screams; still, he couldn't break the flow of the enchantment. He'd have to be content with putting his hand on a patch of clear skin, trying to help him stay grounded. 

But Peter wasn't completely there at that moment. His mind was in a really weird space, like there was only fog but also ambulance lights reflecting on the particles. Numb, but also frenzied. He could only feel pain, not even able to focus on just one of the sources. He could barely move, he could barely see. Through the haze, the only thing he heard was a faraway chant:

> **"Sose benreki,**
> 
> **sose bluotrenki,**
> 
> **sose lidirenki:**
> 
> **ben zi bena,**
> 
> **bluot zi bluoda,**
> 
> **lid zi geliden,**
> 
> **sose gelimida sin"**

By the fifth round, the spirals of blood were gathering back around the injuries, but something seemed to be stopping them, repelling them. It was what Baudran was waiting for. He silently thanked the gods, seeing how tired he already felt and knowing he wouldn't have lasted much longer. He took the cinnamon tincture and applied it on the stripes of fabric, and then used them to clear off the wounds. He'd have to get rid of the malign forces blocking the return of blood.

Suddenly, Baudran let a pained scream leave his mouth. Peter was holding his very forearm with an iron grip, impeding his work on his injuries. Although his hand was shaking, the mysterious young man was on the precipice of breaking his bones. A shudder ran down Baudran's whole body. He was no common human, that much was clear. _Could he kill me in one hit?,_ he grimly asked himself. _Would he? What if he thinks I'm trying to harm him further?_

Fighting his way through his own pain, he looked Peter in the eye, and he saw febril-filled fear. His ash-pale face contorted once again, his grip tightening just that much around Baudran's wrist, his chest trying to rise and fill its lungs with air. When he let it out, he opened his mouth and barely managed to make recognizable sounds. 

"Please…" 

The humming of the forest grew in its intensity. Even through the language barrier, Baudran understood. Something writhed inside the young witch's guts, a feeling of empathy and understanding that made Baudran let go of the fear and almost make an oath to protect him from any evil.

And Baudran was not someone that was used to affection. Not used to receiving it, and certainly not used to be the one giving it. It hit him hard, swiftly, cruelly. 

Dumbfounded for a moment, he nodded at the implicit petition Peter had made, and as he came back to his senses he tried to assure and calm him down, and concentrated again on the task at hand. He continued dabbing softly at the angry wounds, hoping to get whatever was keeping the blood from returning out of the way. When he had taken care of all of them and saw the tendrils were moving towards the openings, he sang again. 

> **"Like bone-sprain,**
> 
> **so blood-sprain,**
> 
> **so joint-sprain:**
> 
> **Bone to bone,**
> 
> **blood to blood,**
> 
> **joints to joints,**
> 
> **so may they be glued"**

The sixth round brought back at full force the brilliance from before. The water shone, and the tendrils, now fully made of a bright crimson liquid, made contact with the open skin. Baudran took advantage of this moment, of letting the magic work by itself, to pick up the bottle of spirit drink and give it to Peter. He should take a sip. The following steps were going to be painful. Baudran couldn't talk (that would entail breaking the spell), and it wasn't like they understood each other's languages anyhow, so he tried to mimic in a fashion that the other would understand. Through the haze in his vision, Peter seemed to get the meaning and frowned. 

"But… I'm not…", he struggled to say before a new wave of pain inundated the entirety of his nerve ends and rendered him incapable of speech. His chest heaved, his hands contracted gruesomely, his lungs fought to take air and let a pained growl out at the same time. Baudran planted his hand at the back of Peter's neck and reclined his head so he could drink. When the pain subsided a little bit, he eyed the bottle with an unconvinced look, not sure of what to do. Baudran insisted impatiently, his eyes starting to stay closed longer than before. Exhaustion was catching up to him. Peter, even though he wasn't at his most perceptive, noticed the problem. With a trembling "Fuck it" and a gigantic effort to nod so the other boy could understand, he finally accepted the drink, and it burned his throat but took away the edge of the pain a little bit. He more than welcomed it.

Baudran sighed with relief. He really didn't have the energy to try to convince anyone of anything even under normal circumstances, but he knew this would make things easier for everyone. Letting his shoulders drop a bit, he concentrated again on his own task. When he esteemed that the timing was right to go through the next step, he sang again:

> **"Like bone-sprain,**
> 
> **so blood-sprain,**
> 
> **so joint-sprain:**
> 
> **Bone to bone,**
> 
> **blood to blood,**
> 
> **joints to joints,**
> 
> **so may they be glued"**

By the seventh round, Baudran could sense his energy escaping from his fingers like cascades, and he was incapable of halting it even for a fraction of a second. His arms were shaking, his vision swimming through a vague haze. He focused all of his energy on Peter's wounds and inside his blood vessels, and soon enough he could see petite drops of a viscous element fleeing from the open injuries. Baudran gasped: he surely wasn't expecting that. _Had he been poisoned? How is this lad still alive?_ The witch unconsciously moved a little bit away from the lying boy, a confused grimace painting his face. He should be dead, but there he was, almost breaking his arm unintentionally, without even realizing he was inflicting pain on him. He watched his countenance, almost unconscious, palid, emaciated. _What_ was he?

Shaking his head, Baudran once again watched the wounds as the droplets emanated from him with a lesser frequency. He took a deep breath, trying to redirect his attention to the matter at hand. When he calmed down, he took a ragged cloth and trapped those beads inside, soaking the fabric in poison. He left it inside a small leather pouch. He then took the poultice he had prepared at the beginning, smashed it a little bit while adding more water, and applied the herbal salve to the smaller cuts and scrapes. His arms trembled, completely overworked at that point, but his resolve didn’t quiver. He had to get this right.

His eyes widened when he saw those little wounds close and disappear almost immediately. He shivered once again, perfectly aware of the unnatural way he had healed even with the extra help of his own magic.  
  
He saved most of the unguent for later, leaving the mortar by his side. It almost fell over from the way his hands trembled, but he managed to avoid the crisis. Inhaling again deeply, keeping the air inside his lungs, Baudran stood up and put one foot inside the water while keeping his balance on the ground. The hand closest to Peter’s still form hovered above him, and the other hand rose to the skies. This was the hardest part. He had to get it right. The leg that was standing on the ground initiated a steady rhythm. After some beats, he released the breath he was treasuring, imbuing it with most of the magic he had left in his own body. He had to get it _right_. 

> **"Like bone-sprain,**
> 
> **so blood-sprain,**
> 
> **so joint-sprain:**
> 
> **Bone to bone,**
> 
> **blood to blood,**
> 
> **joints to joints,**
> 
> **so may they be glued"**

By the eight round, the brilliance of the water beneath him blinded momentarily every soul in almost the entirety of the forest. The pulse that surrounded the ancient trees nearby grew heavier, reverberating inside Baudran’s chest. He could sense the life on the Earth connecting with the sacred waters through his feet, and the energy of the deities above traverse from the risen hand to the opposite one, letting it fall onto the young man below. He shivered from the sheer power. Would his mentor be proud of him? His face lit up with an assured smile. He felt like he could take on the king of England’s entire cavalrymen by himself and no one would come close to stopping him. Yet his mind was slowly swimming closer to the verge of oblivion, drunk on the supernatural force.

A loud scream and horrifying snapping noises woke him from his impending slumber. Baudran steadied himself, focusing on the rhythm his leg was still marking. Sweat rolled down his face and, after the initial numbness from the extra power had faded out, his whole body ached with a fierce, brutal force. Still, he held on. His one hand still pointed at the sky, the other one still suspended over Peter. The foot inside the stream stood firmly on the gravel below. He had to get it right.

The body beneath his standing figure was regaining a natural form, his bones and joints finally going back where they should be and as they should be. He was close, so close to finishing this whole ordeal, but he had to get it right. If he let his control slip once again, he could hurt the young man beyond any miracle healing he’d be able to ever muster. Baudran let his head hang, sighing with anxiety and a deep fatigue that had seeped into his very core. He trembled from his toes to the crown of his cranium as his own energy was being dragged out of his body along with the power he was conjuring, like a leech sucking off every drop of blood he had. He had to just hold on for a little bit longer. He clenched his jaw to the point of feeling pain. His leg maintained the beat.

After a whole eternity, Baudran could not hear any more snapping sounds, and the humming from the trees seemed to urge him to move on. Slowly lifting his head, his vision foggy and unfocused, he looked at Peter. He was still as a statue, with a vacant look in his eyes as they looked above, and hadn’t it been for the way his chest almost imperceptibly rose and fell, he would have believed he was dead. The thought constricted his lungs and clung to his neck. He had to get it right. He couldn’t let him die. He fought for some air to pierce through the worry in his trachea, and with all he had left he intoned the last cycle of the incantation:

> **"Like bone-sprain,**
> 
> **so blood-sprain,**
> 
> **so joint-sprain:**
> 
> **Bone to bone,**
> 
> **blood to blood,**
> 
> **joints to joints,**
> 
> **so may they be glued"**

With the ninth and last round came a calming stillness.

Baudran felt no more energy coursing through him, and it left him shivering even stronger than he had before. He tried taking a small step towards Peter, but his knees collapsed and he fell to the ground, scraping the cloth around the palm of his hands. He hissed at the reborn pain, but shoved the thought aside for the moment. With a colossal effort, his whole body shivering, he approached Peter’s peaceful figure. The latter slightly moved his head, attempting to look at the young witch. He seemed to not be in as much pain as before, and his gaze was more focused. Baudran sighed, relaxing for the first time. He checked his worst wounds. The biggest one, in the abdominal area, was already closing, although barely so. The young witch could not still understand how this man had been able to survive this long, and the thought that there was something supernatural about this person came back to his mind. 

Peter suddenly coughed, and it sounded jarring against the stillness of the clearing in the forest. Oh, right. He had to take him out of the water. Baudran’s mind was getting foggier and foggier, but he was a thorough witch and he would finish his task with all the attention and care needed. The mysterious, perhaps supernatural adolescent made an attempt at sitting down, and Baudran hastily stopped him. He _was_ not going to let one obstinate, thick-skulled idiot destroy his hard work by opening the injuries he had not even healed yet from. He took his arm as gently as his humour and tiredness let him, and putting his other hand behind his back, he started pulling Peter out of the Fountain of Juvence. Even though he retrieved the blanket and tried to help him get dry, Baudran silently thanked the gods for letting this happen in (almost) summertime, and by noon to boot. 

Both teenagers lied down silently for a while. Peter passed out almost immediately, finally getting some rest. The forest had resumed its peaceful humming. Baudran was used to feeling the inherent magic surrounding him, especially at certain places like the Fountain. It comforted him, and it made him reminisce about the gentler summer morrows at the pond by the cottage, his mentor singing quietly while attending the plants of their garden. It enshrouded him like a warm hug. He could almost taste the scent of freshly cut flowers - marshmallow, marigold, mullein… 

He quickly shot his eyes open yet again. _The tincture_ , he thought. _I still have to apply it to his wounds_. He groaned with all the tiredness in his body. Slowly, very slowly, he barely sat up and crawled to where he had left the mortar. Taking the yarrow, the saffron and the feverfew, the witch added the remaining plants to the previous poultice. He looked at Peter while he mixed them. The boy was still pale, but some colour was tinting his cheeks; his chest rose and fell regularly and his wounds seemed to be almost closed. Baudran smiled for the first time in... a while. Once all the ingredients were properly blended, he gently applied the balm on the cuts and semi-open wounds. This should help them heal properly. With a last effort he bandaged them tight enough. Then, he plopped down by the other boy’s side. He fell asleep right away with a smile on his face.

He finally got it right.

A raven warbled contentedly before it took flight.

The sacred waters of the stream murmured gently their crystalline lullaby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AT LAST.
> 
> This has taken a looooong time to write, and this is just half of the chapter I had in mind. Originally this was going to be just the beginning of this part of the story, but alas, the Gods are trolling me too. It's A THIRD of the entire fic so far.
> 
> Also, it's taken me longer than the other chapters mainly because of my obsession with accuracy. Searching for plants that might help healing wounds/poison and also were around France in the Middle Ages, researching how they can be used for that purpose and all of that jazz is one part of it. The other was trying to change a little bit the phrasing and words from Baudran's POV (trying to pick the latinized or archaic words if I had the option), but I struggle with plain English on a daily basis so you can imagine how this has gone. I hope this at least can be noticed subconsciously. But hey! I've learned a lot from it! I hope this gets better as time goes on.
> 
> What I'm trying to say is: thank you for your patience. I know I'm slow, so I appreciate you still reading this <3
> 
> Fun fact time! There are a couple of interesting things in this chapter:  
> -The first one, for those who haven't seen my Instagram posts, is a hint of where this story takes place. If you google "Pont Dom Jean" and "Fontaine de Jouvence" you might find out...  
> -The second one is the incantation Baudran casts. It's an actual incantation from the 9th century! The spell is part of the so called "Merseburg charms" and they're written in Old High German, that's why Peter doesn't understand a word. If you want to hear an awesome rendition of this spell check out "Hamrer Hippyer" by Heilung!  
> ~The more you know~
> 
> Also, note that English is my second language, so I've probably made grammatical mistakes! Please do notify me if you find any! The same goes for historical facts, I'd LOVE to be corrected if there's something wrong!  
> There's plenty of art related to this story in my Instagram (@Neddea) for those who want to take a look!


End file.
